Psychosomatic Sickness
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Sherlock was an essential part of John's life. John needed Sherlock like he needed air. Now, with the absence of the consulting detective, John finds it ever increasingly more difficult to breathe... Post-Reichenbach. Possible trigger warning, be advised, and rated for such.
1. Chapter 1

**Psychosomatic Sickness**

"They say John's ill..."

"Who's 'they'?"

"Greg said so... He said that he won't leave the flat..."

"Is that all?"

"W-Well, no, he's sick, Sherlock. He's depressed and it's just... spiraling."

"It's hardly my problem."

"He's gone downhill ever since you... left."

"So, you're saying it's my fault."

"Wh- Sherlock, he... he misses you."

"Sentiment-"

"No, Sherlock, I'm serious. He's really sick."

"He can go to hospital, then."

"He won't leave the flat."

"Well, what am I supposed to do about it? I have a plane to catch tomorrow to Johannesburg. Besides, John thinks that I'm dead. I can hardly show up at his flat."

"We're all afraid that..."

"That what, Molly?"

"... He doesn't leave the flat, he barely eats and sleeps, he doesn't talk to anyone else, Greg said that he's still texting you-"

"Annoyingly so."

"... Greg said that he, well, he-he's nervous. That John might do something... something-"

"John would never commit suicide."

"It has to do with sentiment... So, do you... do you really know that?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

* * *

John stared at the ceiling of the flat, steadily counting his breaths. It was difficult to catch his breath, John realized dully, after a coughing fit. Even moreso after he had been crying, after he had been sick for the past month.

Except he wasn't really sure if he was sick. He had just felt _so_ horrible ever since... ever since Sherlock's death. He had been tired, but he hadn't been sleeping. He hadn't had an appetite, and even though he had always told Sherlock that he needed to eat, John stopped eating three meals a deal. He hadn't had the ambition to do anything, really, and he had stopped leaving the flat unless necessary. He stepped out to Tesco's when he _had_ to, but he didn't go walking through Trafalgar Square for leisure, either. He had had a headache for the past half month, on and off and annoying as hell, and every so often, he'd remember watching Sherlock fall to the ground and John would end up rinning to the toilet to be violently sick.

_It's psychosomatic_, his mind was telling him. _Sherlock's_ voice was telling him that it was psychosomatic. But, after the first few weeks, John began to wonder if it really was psychosomatic. He felt so horrible, all the time.

John took another deep breath. It shuddered and he coughed slightly, raising his hand to cover his mouth.

He wanted to curl up and fall back asleep.

And, without anything else for him to do, John did.

That's all he seemed to do anymore, really. And it really was disgusting and pathetic, but every time he thought he might go out to Hyde Park, he decided that maybe he would do it later, and he always put it off and put it off and he never really... got around to it.

Instead, he slept and occasionally pulled up the homepage for his blog, although he never updated it. The last update had been on June 16th, right after Sherlock's death.

It was like a part of John had died when Sherlock had, and John knew that wasn't far from the truth. He needed Sherlock like he needed oxygen. It made sense that he was breathless nowadays.

When John woke up again, it was nearly one in the afternoon and he couldn't fall back asleep because it was too bright. The neighbors in the nearby flat had their television up entirely too loud and John resisted the urge to go next door and demand that they turn it down. He'd already gotten into one fist fight, not long after Sherlock's suicide. Someone had called Sherlock a lying, thieving, backstabbing sob, in precisely those words, to his face. John had completely lost it and he didn't feel bad about it afterwards, even though Greg was the arresting officer and there was a look of pity on his face.

John hauled himself out of bed, stumbling to the bathroom.

After a very hot shower that left him dizzy from heat, John wandered to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

It was only after he had brewed it and taken a gulp of the hot liquid that John felt the vertigo start. Saw, more like, as the world blurred into one big blob. He squeezed his eyes shut and attempted to set his cup back on the saucer.

He didn't see how, but the cup crashed onto the floor.

John flinched, trying to step away. _Trying_, because the world was still spinning and his head was pounding and dark spots were flittering across his vision.

The dark spots formed together, tunnel-vision assailing him, before John gave into the darkness and fainted straightaway.

* * *

**Thanks to Storylover18 for this wonderful prompt, because I basically asked her for an angsty prompt, and she suggested this idea. This idea which hasn't really been stated yet, but, this is only the prologue. So, yes, angst alert. **

**Favs/Follows/Reviews are always appreciated. Thank you!**


	2. Chapter 2

"When I was told that you were sick, I retorted that you could take care of yourself. And then I happen to drop by the flat, just to check on you and not to visit, because I _can't_ visit anyone right now, I find you passed out in a pile of glass in your own cluttered kitchen. For a military man, you're living a sloppy lifestyle."

John heard a voice talking to him. He recognized the voice. He didn't believe that the voice was really there, though, because it was Sherlock's voice.

"You're a genuine idiot, John. I thought you were smarter than this."

John found himself being hauled off his feet. There was a brief moment where it seemed like he was falling- falling, like Sherlock, Sherlock had fallen...

John fell onto his bed with a slight groan.

"You're burning up. I don't know how long you've had this fever, but as a doctor, you should be taking better care of yourself."

John fumbled for the duvet, drawing it over his head.

This wasn't the first time that he had dealt with hallucinations. They had become a normal occurence for John, especially during the first month. He'd seen Sherlock sprawled out on the couch, spotted him in a crowd, heard him working on an experiment, heard his insults, spotted his eyes looking back at him in a reflection... Hallucinations were normal. They had been painful at first, so, so painful, but he had gotten used to them.

He had expected them to go away.

They hadn't.

Except now it was worse... He was actually hearing Sherlock's voice, and Sherlock was griping at him because he was _sick_. Sherlock didn't gripe at him because he was sick; he griped because he was stupid. So John knew this was a hallucination.

Sherlock would never care so much.

The blanket was suddenly wrenched away.

Oh, this was really an _intricate _hallucination.

"Stop it," said Sherlock's voice. "Stop being stupid; it's tedious and dull."

John mumbled something in response, but even he didn't know what he had been trying to say. Nothing constructive, he reckoned; he rarely said anything constructive nowadays.

There was something cold and wet on his forehead just then. John wanted to protest, but he couldn't find the strength to.

"I'm not even supposed to be here, John. I'm supposed to be on a flight to Johannesburg," Sherlock's voice conversationally.

"Why are you going to Johannesburg...?"

John had always thought that, if he heard voices, he was fine... as long as he didn't reply to them. However, with Sherlock sounding so close, so nearby...

If he was insane... at least he'd get to have a conversation with Sherlock.

"It doesn't matter."

"Wanna know..." John murmured. He pried his eyes open. He felt sick. He _had_ been feeling sick. He didn't know if he _was_ still sick. Or if he had been sick...

"There are people I need to meet."

"People... people more important than me?" John muttered, staring up at Sherlock.

The consulting detective looked so _normal_. So like how John had seen him... before he had jumped off the rooftop of St. Barts. Pale skin, dark hair, piercing eyes, long coat... So very like the Sherlock Holmes that John had known.

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock replied, before John's world was suddenly dark. John realized that Sherlock had moved what seemed to be a cold compass over his eyes. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes. He didn't want to close his eyes. He didn't want to fall asleep. He didn't want Sherlock to leave him... He didn't want to open his eyes again and find that Sherlock was gone. That Sherlock was dead. Because Sherlock really _was_ dead.

John had to rely on hallucinations. And he didn't want his hallucination to leave him now.

* * *

Sherlock, with a sigh, sank heavily onto the edge of the bed, staring at the sleeping figure of John Watson.

How did it come to this? How did it come to Sherlock taking care of John? How did it come to Sherlock revealing to John that he was still alive? Not that John understood that, anyway...

Sherlock hesitantly picked up the cold washcloth and folded it over again, pressing the cool side to John's forehead again.

The doctor was burning up. Sherlock wasn't sure how John had managed to get a fever so high, not when he was a doctor and he sort of... should have noticed it. He knew how to take care of himself, so... why didn't he?

Was John really depressed...?

Sherlock had expected John to be upset. He had expected John to be angry. He hadn't expected John to get depressed. John wouldn't let himself give into the depression, if it was there, would he? He wouldn't. He couldn't. He just...

John was strong. Sherlock had always admired him for that. (He wouldn't admit it to John, of course.) John always stuck around him, always followed him wherever he needed him to, always helped him with what he needed help with. And he barely even complained. And that was amazing, because no one _ever_ put up with Sherlock without complaining.

Sherlock sighed and stood, walking to the bathroom. He had figured out the layout of John's flat the moment he had walked in, but it still felt weird to be walking around a flat, that he and John were both in, that wasn't Baker Street. This flat just didn't feel... well, it didn't feel like home.

Sherlock wouldn't tell John that, though, although he wasn't sure why. Why shouldn't he be his normal, blunt self? It would make John feel better, wouldn't it? But something was preventing Sherlock from saying anything that might be too... delicate.

Why?

Sherlock grabbed a few bags of frozen vegetables from the freezer. He noted the lack of food in the fridge, grabbing himself a packet of crisps from the cupboard, before walking back to John's bedroom.

He popped the packet of crisps open, munching on one absently. He placed the packet on the bed, dusting salt off of his hands. He took two of the bags of frozen veggies and placed them on John's arms; the other he wrapped in the compress and placed back on John's forehead.

He wasn't well versed on how to deal with a fever. He never got sick, so there was no point to hang onto the useless information about it.

However... a fever was the core temperature being higher than normal. To help fight off infection, the body temperature rose. So, to get rid of a fever, the body would have to get cooler. Ice packs could help with that. Drinking something cold would probably help, too.

Sherlock eyed John for a moment as he returned to his crisps. The doctor was unconscious, or had just fallen asleep; the point was the same: he couldn't drink anything right now.

So, ice packs it was and that was all Sherlock could do right now... right?

If John's internal temperature was high, he would be feeling cold. That was just a strange phenomenon that happened with high temperatures. The mind played tricks on you. (That's why Sherlock hated illness.) That asides, if John was cold, he would immediately burrow towards the warmth that was the blankets. Sherlock had wrenched it away once, but John would snuggle close again.

Sherlock sighed and pulled the duvet and cover off the bed, letting it fall heavily onto the hardwood floor. He left the sheet for John, although he didn't place it over him. It was better for John to shiver than to have his temperature rise, right?

Sherlock returned to his spot on the bed, leaning against the bedpost slightly. Eating his crisps methodically, he analyzed John.

He certainly _looked_ a lot different.

It didn't make much sense. Sherlock had only been 'dead' for slightly over a half year. Seven months was hardly enough time for someone to physically change, not in the way that it seemed like John had.

His hair seemed more grey and he had lost weight. At least five pounds if Sherlock was correct, and he was sure that he was. His eyes were hazed with fever, but they lacked the interest that they had when Sherlock had lived with him. He was pale and he seemed more drawn up and just... John-less. It was like John wasn't even there anymore.

The empty shell that was left behind unsettled Sherlock more than he cared to let on.

_Oh well_, Sherlock thought as he crunched on another crisp, _John'll be back to normal as soon as the illness fades_.

He never paused to consider that a fever wasn't the only illness John was sick with.

He never imagined that the word _psychosomatic_ would refer to John's state of health once again.


	3. Chapter 3

John opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling.

He had been having this spectacular dream where Sherlock was here, here in his flat, _taking care of him_...

It was a spectacular dream, but it was also a nightmare. It was a nightmare because it reminded John that Sherlock was _never_ coming home. He would never see his best friend again...

"John, I made soup, if you want any..."

John's gaze immediately snapped to the person in the doorway of his bedroom.

"Sherlock..." John mumbled, blinking slowly.

"Yes, my name is still Sherlock." The voice sounded annoyed now. "Now, do you want soup or not?"

John didn't immediately respond. There was a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, something that wasn't entirely nausea and not entirely butterflies. He figured that it was leaning more towards nerves.

The fact that Sherlock was _still_ in his flat made him nervous. It made him sick to his stomach to imagine that Sherlock was going to vanish. That this was all just some elaborate _thing_ that his mind was making up...

... and real or not, it made John sick to think that it was all going to go away again.

"John?"

"You're not real..." John said, the words barely a whisper under his breath.

How could have he been so blind? How could he not _realize _that he couldn't hang onto this? This is was a hallucination. This was a dream. How could he even _try_ to _hope_? Why would his mind even put him through this?

"Don't be ridiculous, John."

The sad thing was, while John hated himself for giving into the hallucination... Sherlock was right _there_; he sounded so _close_ and so near him and John just wanted to _believe_-

"I think I'm going to be sick..." John whispered, pushing himself into a sitting position. The sick feeling had, definitely, given into nausea and he had the terrible feeling of the few seconds before one was about to be violently sick.

"What?" Now Sherlock's voice was, if anything, still annoyed, but also slightly panicked. (John had to be imagining that.) "Why?"

John opted not to reply, pressing his hand over his mouth. As miserable as life happened to be right now, he really did not want to vomit all over his bed.

He fumbled with the blankets, trying to push them out of the way. However, in the next second, John recognized his rubbish bin being shoved into his hands and he wasted no time in being sick.

"Vomiting isn't a typical symptom of a fever, is it...?" For once, Sherlock's voice sounded unsure.

John wanted to grab the detective and hug him and sob and cry and maybe punch him in the face, because he was _so stupid_ in his intelligence. But he couldn't; Sherlock was dead. Sherlock was buried in the ground. In a casket. Rotting.

His vomiting renewed.

"Get a grip on yourself, John," was the response.

John nearly laughed. Nearly.

Because, in the next moment, his eyes were stinging with tears and he wasn't quite so capable in brushing them all away.

There was a long silence that followed. John was trying to control his stomach and control his stupid, bloody _tears_ and everything was silent. It reminded him eerily of how his life was before Sherlock had shown back up (hallucination as he was). Quiet, but not peaceful. Calm, but not welcoming.

And... he was so...

... _sick _of it.

John sniffed, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.

"Are you finished?" Sherlock asked dryly.

This time, John _did_ laugh. Albeit a bit hysterically.

"Finished..." John echoed.

"Yes, finished snivelling."

"Finished with everything..." John murmured.

There was another silence that seemed to stretch on for much too long. John wondered if he had admitted something that he ought not have, but decided that it ultimately didn't matter since he was just talking to himself.

"Why would you _ever_ say that?" returned Sherlock's voice.

John didn't really understand Sherlock's tone. The detective's voice was nearly emotionless, but it sounded... well, somewhat annoyed. Maybe a little unsure.

"Why wouldn't I?" John retorted. "You're gone and life is boring and you know as well as I that I don't handle boring well."

"But I'm not-" Sherlock stopped, taking a deep breath. "What about Harry. Harry, Mrs. Hudson, Greg. Your rugby friends-"

"Friends," John muttered.

What were _friends_? John had _one _friend, one _true_ friend, and he was a hallucination right now.

"Yes," Sherlock said firmly.

"You don't believe in friends," John replied.

"Not true."

"Whatever..."

"John!" John glanced back at Sherlock. The detective was staring at him, looking livid. "You have people that care for you. Do not throw that away over _me_."

"But _you_ were the only one that mattered!"

John didn't know why he was saying this. He didn't know why he was saying all of this, much less arguing with a hallucination. Or why he was saying this to Sherlock, of all people, real or imaginary, dead or alive. It had been the _worst_ thing, one of the most difficult things ever, to tell Sherlock how much he meant to him. (And the _'I was so alone, and I owe you so much'_ echoed in his head daily, hour by hour, painfully.) But now, he was spouting all of this crap to Sherlock without so much as batting an eyelash and why? John couldn't answer.

Sherlock looked taken aback for a moment. How could Sherlock not have deduced how much he had mattered? How hadn't he been able to look at John and _realize_ just how much his meant to the blogger doctor companion?

Because Sherlock hadn't been flawless, that was how. But John had learned to accept those flaws and he had grown to get _used_ to those flaws and now those flaws were gone. And it was... so empty, really.

"John..." Sherlock started, but John shook his head.

"Forget it..." he whispered.

"I can't forget it when my only friend is contemplating suicide!"

John smiled weakly. "Dead men have no friends, Sherlock."

"Don't be so sure."

The statement was so solid that it made John do a double-take at Sherlock. The detective had that stubborn look, the light in his eyes that made John think he was missing an obvious fact.

"Uh huh..." he replied, for a lack of anything else to say.

John finally pushed the blankets out of the way, making to stand.

Sherlock immediately noticed. "What are you doing?"

John looked back at him. "Going to the bathroom...?" He said it like a question.

"You think you can walk?"

"Of course I can walk..."

"_Can_ you?"

John glared weakly. He wouldn't admit it, but he still felt horrible. He felt too warm and he was shivering, and everything hurt and ached and... well, he hoped that he could walk.

"Yes."

John had barely stood up when he collapsed back onto the bed. Overly humiliated, and not wanting to give hallucination-Sherlock the chance to say 'I told you so', John huffed and said "I can't walk".

"Obviously."

Sherlock was suddenly in front of him, his hand extended. John blinked at it for a moment. He wouldn't admit how very much like St. Bart's rooftop this felt like, Sherlock reaching for him.

John reached up and took Sherlock's hand.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock sighed heavily, listening to John snore quietly.

This was... _not_ fun.

How _did_ he convince John that, even though his best friend was dead, the doctor still had something to live for? _How_...

Sherlock didn't understand sentiment. He never had and he didn't think that he ever would. However, he _did_ understand it a little bit better than he used to... even if he was still confused on most points.

He knew that John... cared for him. That much was _painfully_ obvious. Sherlock had taken that for granted, he realized now. But that didn't matter. What did matter was that John had cared for him so much that it was almost like Sherlock had become an extension of John himself. Their bond had been unbreakable... but it had been broken.

And the damage was rather irreparable, wasn't it?

John thought that Sherlock was a hallucination right now. It couldn't be more perfect. Sherlock would be able to leave and John would just think it had all been part of his mind.

But the fact that John thought he was a hallucination at all meant he was holding onto his memory, far too tightly, and Sherlock wasn't sure if he could walk away again.

He had to, though. He had to.

It took approximately three hours for John's fever to drop a degree. That was good, because it was now out of the forty range. That was good.

It took another six hours for John to wake up.

Sherlock didn't want to wake John up. The worry and the pain completely left his face, leaving him looking peaceful, albeit vulnerable.

Sherlock _hated_ the vulnerability almost as much as he enjoyed seeing John looking peaceful.

"Sh'lock..." John mumbled, prying his eyes open.

Sherlock didn't move from his seat across the room. He'd gotten a chair from the kitchen and moved it into John's room, and he had sat there, perfectly still, watching John as he slept. He had, occasionally, moved to check John's temperature, to replace a cold compress, or to find a new bag of something frozen from the freezer. Otherwise, he hadn't moved, and he had only been thinking about John's predicament.

"Over here," Sherlock murmured.

John propped himself up, squinting towards Sherlock.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked, pushing himself away from the chair. "You fever dropped awhile ago, but I haven't checked it recently."

John watched him warily. Sherlock could still see the fever-haze in the doctor's eyes.

"John?"

"I'm still dreaming..."

Sherlock didn't comment on that, forcing back a pang of what seemed to be sadness. "How are you feeling?" he repeated instead.

"Better... I guess... I don't really know," John muttered, sitting up slightly.

"So, how long has this been going on?" Sherlock asked, deciding to take the plunge and tackle the topic, even though he was pretty sure that he knew the answer.

"What...?"

Sherlock gestured at him.

"What?" John repeated, sounding a bit annoyed now.

"Being sick."

"Oh..." John shrugged slightly. "I don't know... awhile..."

"Since June." It wasn't a question.

Sherlock didn't miss the flinch, but he didn't comment.

John fumbled with the blankets, pulling them close. He was studiously not looking at Sherlock, the detective noticed, and his voice was layered with reluctance when he spoke.

"... No... I don't think it was June... I mean, it's been awhile, but..."

"Since June, then," Sherlock said.

John glanced up, briefly meeting Sherlock's gaze before looking over his shoulder. "I just said-"

"And you're not meeting my gaze, you're toying with the blankets, and you're choosing your words ridiculously carefully, so I know you're lying to me."

John didn't reply.

"John," Sherlock started, but the doctor cut him off by pressing his hands against his ears.

"I don't wanna hear it," John breathed. "I don't want to hear you talk about it. For- Can't we just act like everything's _normal_?"

"It's not."

"I don't-"

"It could be normal, if you actually _tried_," Sherlock continued.

John opened his eyes again, looking once again at Sherlock.

Sherlock stared back at him, unyielding.

"... It can't be normal..." John mumbled.

"It _can_. It will."

"No."

"_Yes_."

"You don't understand-"

"Yes, I do!" Sherlock interrupted. "Well, as much as I can. I _know_ you... you..." Sherlock stopped, trying to find the word that could explain their relationship. There wasn't one. "Friends, John, we're friends. And I saved you from yourself, or some other drivel like that. The limp and the tremor and the adrenalin rushes- I'm not an idiot, I can see. I just never realized..." He took a breath. "Look. I know this hurts. I... I don't really understand the logic behind it, but it's obvious that it does, somehow. But you need to forget about it. About me."

"What don't you understand? I _need you_! I can't-"

"You _can_."

Sherlock watched the stubbornness leave John's eyes, watched the vacant look return before tears replaced them.

John exhaled quietly, looking away.

Sherlock resisted the urge to sigh as well.

And, in the next moment, Sherlock found arms around his waist and John was quick to bury his face against his shirt.

Sherlock froze, staring down at the doctor. Hugs... Hugging, okay. A symbol of affection or a meaning of comfort. Okay.

Sherlock hesitantly sank into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. John only responded by locking his arms around Sherlock's back and hiding his face against his shoulder.

Sherlock could never remember a time where he had been so tense. He wasn't entirely sure why- people hugged people all the time- but with John sobbing against his chest and John's arms like vices around him, Sherlock was utterly _unsure_ of what to do.

He settled on what seemed to be the most proper response; he tentatively snaked his arms around John and held him close in an embrace.

It seemed like ages that they sat like that, with their arms around each other (albeit if Sherlock was so awkward that he barely dared to breathe deeply). Sherlock stayed utterly still. John was shaking, but his sobbing had stopped.

John sniffed, resting his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder. He sighed shakily. "So pathetic... crying... sorry..."

Sherlock unfroze, slightly, after John had spoke. He glanced down at the doctor still clinging to him, as though he was a lifeline, unhappiness flowing through his veins.

"Even soldiers cry..." Sherlock murmured, closing his own eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

John was dreaming.

That much, Sherlock could tell, from the rapid flickering beneath John's eyelids and the flinch that happened every so often.

"Sh'lock..." John groaned, slurring Sherlock's name in his unconsciousness.

Sherlock stiffened, looking down at the sleeping doctor that was still slumped against him. John had fallen asleep like that, and Sherlock hadn't had quite the heart to move him when he was sleeping so soundly.

However, John wasn't sleeping so soundly right now. Sherlock still didn't have the correct ambition to wake the doctor; he wanted to know what John was dreaming about, asides from the obvious.

He _could_ guess.

"'m a doctor..."

He could guess correctly.

_"I'm a doctor"_ had been what John had said seven months ago, when he had tried to join Sherlock after that fateful fall.

John was still dreaming about _that_ day.

Sherlock sighed.

When John whimpered, actually whimpered, Sherlock shook his shoulder. "Hey. John. Wake up," he said, raising his voice slightly. "John."

It took a moment, but John started awake, looking around blearily. He looked around the room before raising his gaze to meet Sherlock's.

"Oh... Sherlock..." John mumbled, sitting up. "What are you doing...?"

"Stopping your nightmares," Sherlock replied.

"My nightmares never stop," John muttered, stretching a bit.

How did Sherlock handle this? He _still_ didn't know... Normally, when someone got too emotional, Sherlock removed himself from the situation so he didn't have to deal with it. But, now, he was _trying_ to _remedy_ the situation and he... he didn't know how.

"John..." he muttered. "Your life was fine before you met me."

"No, it-"

"I understand that you miss the war, and that you miss me, but you'll find something else to occupy your mind."

"Nope."

"Yes, you will."

"Sherlock, no-"

"John!" Sherlock interrupted, frowning down at him. "What about Harry? What about Mrs. Hudson? Greg? Bill and Mike and the rugby team?"

"We don't talk..." John mumbled.

"Who's fault is that?" Sherlock retorted.

John stared up at him tiredly. "What...?"

"Who's fault is it that you don't talk to anyone?" Sherlock repeated.

Maybe he was being harsh. Blunt. But, John would be more upset if Sherlock wasn't, right?

John didn't say anything.

"John, you _need_ to let someone in."

"Like you let me in on your plans...?" John mumbled.

"I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"I can't tell you. You'll understand in time, but right now, you need to worry about yourself. About your _friends_. People are worried about you."

John sighed, hauling himself to his feet. It was clear that he didn't want to hear any of this, but he wasn't going anywhere; as soon as he stood, he swayed and Sherlock had to stand quickly to steady him.

"Lay down," he said.

"I don't want to have this conversation, Sherlock," John said, although he did sit back on the edge of the bed. "Why do you want to have this conversation?"

"Because I'm worried about you." It was immediate, a reflex. Instinct.

John stopped, looking at him again. He seemed to be looking for something, something that proved that what Sherlock was saying was a lie, that it didn't count...

... but, then, he sighed, turning away from Sherlock to crawl under the duvet.

"You can't be worried about me, Sherlock. You're dead."

Sherlock smiled wryly. "Oh, John, but I can. I do. You have no idea."

While that wasn't entirely truthful, Sherlock reasoned, he did _think_ about John daily, so he figured that that was pretty much the same thing. He missed John... He really did. On more than one occasion, he'd had to stop himself texting John back. It was just embedded in his hard drive to talk to John, not the skull, to ask John to do the shopping rather than do it for himself. It was different, now, and it was still taking some getting used to. On both of their accounts...

"Well, stop," John muttered.

"Stop acting like I was the only important person in your life."

"I can't..."

"Then I suppose that I can't stop worrying."

John frowned at him as he snuggled into the blankets. "I'm not trying to make you worry. Since when do you worry, anyway...?"

"This problem could be solved a lot more quickly if you actually got out of the flat and talked to someone once in awhile, kept up your _friendships_ with your _friends_. Don't say that you don't have any; Greg was the reason that I found out about you being sick at all. Which," he added, "by the way, your fever is holding steady at thirty-eight four."

"How did Greg know?" John asked.

"Have you asked him out for a pint since I died?"

John flinched slightly.

"No? Oh, how telling. Have you visited him at Scotland Yard since I died? Have you visited Molly at St. Barts since the day that I jumped off? No. You have not. You're clearly avoiding anything that reminds you of me, Greg included, so yes, he noticed. _Everyone_ had noticed, John, even the stupid people. You wonder why Greg and Molly and Mike and Mrs. Hudson all worry about you; perhaps you should actually look into the mirror and realize that the reason that you're not feeling any better is all thanks to _you_."

John blinked in surprise.

"... Bit much?" Sherlock asked after a second, frowning slightly.

John shivered, pulling the blankets closer. "No. No... just... I miss you," John mumbled under his breath. "I miss your deductions..."

"Good to know that, while I'm dead, you simply miss my deductions. It must be so painful to be constantly beset by stupid people," Sherlock said.

John cracked a brief smile.

"You can always remedy it. Be beset by the people that you care about. Let them care about _you_," Sherlock said. "Let them... share your pain. They miss me, too."

(He thought they missed him. Except Anderson and Donovan... They had to be glad that he was gone. He couldn't wait to see their faces when he returned.)

John mumbled something under his breath; Sherlock didn't catch it, but John just settled further under the blankets and closed his eyes.

"John?"

"Mmm?"

"You're going to be fine."

Sherlock didn't know that. He didn't know anything, when it all boiled down to it, in this situation. It was sentiment. It was emotion. It was... _so_ difficult. He mainly said that so John would believe it. John thought that Sherlock was, maybe not flawless, but he was intelligent. John believed that Sherlock was a genius. He _believed_... and Sherlock hoped that he could make him believe now.

John didn't reply for a long while. Sherlock guessed that he had fallen asleep, but, some time later, John broke the silence.

"Sherlock...?"

"Yes?"

"Are you going to still be here...?"

"Yes. Go to sleep."

John seemed content to fall asleep to those words.

Sherlock, sighing, went to get a cold compress to place on the sick doctor's forehead.

* * *

**Progress? Maybe. Sherlock's not great at this caring lark.**

**I don't own _Sherlock_. Reviews/favs/follows are always appreciated. Thank you!**


	6. Chapter 6

John's dreams were unpleasant. Not unpleasant in the sense that he was watching Sherlock throw himself off a building, but rather in the sense that they were full of nothingness and a sense of foreboding.

Sherlock had been with him for this long... and John knew that the hallucination was going to disintegrate soon.

It scared him.

The difference was, he knew it shouldn't. He had been alone this entire time; Sherlock was an imagination of his own mind. He had been alone, but he had been _happy_. Sort of. Through the sickness and the vomiting and the sobbing and the emotion... He had been with Sherlock, his best friend, and he had been... okay.

He didn't have to be alone, he realized. He had been thinking about the words that Sherlock had told him. That John could let his friends care for him... That they could share his pain... John doubted that anyone could understand what he was going through, and definitely not Sherlock, in the least, but... Maybe having his friends close would be... alright.

... Even if his one true friend was dead.

John blinked his eyes open, blearily looking towards the ceiling. He felt tired and sweaty. The latter was a good signal that his fever had finally broken... not that that was a particular worry of John's.

He was more worried about Sherlock.

Who wasn't there.

"Sherlock...?" John mumbled, sitting up.

The detective wasn't sitting in his room. In fact, it didn't seem like Sherlock had been here at all. John's room was entirely spotless- not including his own mess that had been collecting- and everything was where it had been before Sherlock had stopped by.

John's heart was racing as he threw the blankets away, stumbling out of his room. He walked into the hall, peering into the sitting room.

"Sherlock?"

There was no detective.

John swallowed back the urge to be sick, curling his hands into fists as the left one started to tremble.

No.

No, he was fine. He was fine, he didn't need Sherlock. He didn't. He _didn't_.

"John?"

John flinched. He whirled around, staring at Sherlock as the detective stopped in the doorway. There was snow collected on his coat and standing out against the darkness of his hair.

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock strode across the room, placing his hand on John's forehead.

"Your fever's broken," Sherlock commented, sounding pleased. "Good to know. Do you want lunch? I've got some Italian here, if you're interested," he said, holding up a shopping bag that smelled like take-away.

John's stomach decided very much that, yes, it was interested, but John ignored his stomach's rumbling in favour of talking to hallucination-Sherlock.

"Where _were_ you?" he murmured.

"As is obvious, John, I went out. You needed some shopping and I needed lunch. You'd be proud of how much I eat these days. I'll eat a meal everyday if I'm not busy, which is, sadly, not so often..."

"You've been not-busy for seven months, then?" John asked, taking the bag of take-away from Sherlock. "What have you been not-busy with...?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said. "It's so boring- John! The risotto's mine!"

John looked up at Sherlock as he opened the container of risotto. "Is it?"

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. Have it your way. This figures, doesn't it?" he muttered, throwing himself onto John's sofa.

"There's still the other stuff you ordered," John muttered, finding silverware for himself. "Please eat... I really don't want to have to worry about that, too..."

"You don't have to worry about me. I take care of myself," Sherlock said absently, stretching out and kicking his shoes off.

"No, you don't..."

"Okay, yeah, I don't."

John looked across the room at Sherlock. The consulting detective looked back at him stoically before John offered a slight smile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John didn't miss the ghost of a smile that passed Sherlock's lips as he looked away.

It was all so domestic, John realized, sitting here, eating take-away, Sherlock sprawled out across the couch with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. It was all so very nostalgic... and John smiled wistfully at the memories of Baker Street.

"I think I might call Lestrade," John said, after awhile of silently eating lunch. Sherlock had been silent by default, although John had the suspicion that he was tired.

However, the lanky detective looked at him critically when John mentioned calling the Inspector.

"Oh? What for?"

"Just to... well, I thought I might have him stop by. We could talk... or something."

"Sounds dull," Sherlock said, although John noted the sudden relief in Sherlock's eyes before he looked away again. "I'll leave you to your devices."

John put down his empty take-away container. "You're leaving, then...?" he asked, hesitantly. He didn't want to know the answer, but it was better to see Sherlock off, rather than the hallucination just vanishing one day. At least, this way, he got the chance to say goodbye. He hadn't even had that before. This was a blessing...

... or something like that.

"I must. I have an important meeting in Zurich in two days, and I absolutely cannot miss it."

"Right..." John's stomach was starting to tie itself in knots. Perhaps he shouldn't have had that take-away before he had this conversation with Sherlock. "When...?"

"This evening... if that suits?"

"I think so... I'll have Lestrade stop by afterwards, then, to..." John cleared his throat. "To keep me company."

Sherlock nodded absently. "Fine."

John paused again. "... I'm never going to see you again..." he murmured.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Sherlock replied.

His tone made John think, once again, that he knew something that John didn't, but John realized he had often felt this way- like he was missing something obvious- and it was just a part of their relationship. He didn't question it.

"Right," he said simply, because he didn't know what else to say.

The day passed without any excitement. John barely dared to move, afraid that once he blinked too many times, Sherlock would be gone. But Sherlock, who _had_ dozed off for a bit, stayed true to his word. He stayed all day.

It was around six that the butterflies came back, that John's hand started trembling again, that his eyes started to sting, but he forced it all away on the knowledge that he could have his goodbye this time. It would be fine. _He_ would be fine.

"You should call Lestrade," Sherlock said, at some point.

John, hands shaking, obliged. It was an awkward conversation at best, and downright painful at worst. Lestrade agreed to stop by.

"He'll be here in ten minutes..." John murmured as he ended the call.

"Good." Sherlock stood, once again placing his hand against John's forehead. "Your fever seems to be staying away. Stay hydrated and continue taking paracetamol if you still have a headache, but don't take it just if you feel tired. Sleep remedies tiredness, not medication."

"I _know_," John said a bit irritably. He _was_ a doctor and he _didn't_ plan on becoming reliant on pain medication for depression... or whatever it was that he had been experiencing.

"Don't do this to yourself again, John. I don't want to have to bail you out every time you feel sad," Sherlock said seriously.

John laughed slightly. "Yeah, right... I'll try to remember that..."

"Good," Sherlock said again. He, unlike John, sounded serious.

John knew that he was. And he didn't want to make Sherlock worry. He really, _really_ didn't. Even if Sherlock _was_ dead... His ghost was probably worrying or something. John didn't know, but he still couldn't stand the thought.

Upsetting Sherlock was just about one of the worst things John thought he could do. After Sherlock had done for much for him, John couldn't imagine something more hateful than making him feel bad.

Even if he _had_ jumped off a-

_No_. Do not think about that. That is the past.

Sherlock was watching him, his deductive, analytical gaze across his face. John tried to make his smile genuine, although he knew that he wasn't doing a great job at it.

"So, this is goodbye," John murmured.

"So it would seem..." Sherlock said, still watching him. "But it's a new beginning for you."

"... I know this is a hallucination. You just said something inspirational," John murmured.

Sherlock smirked. "Yeah, well..." He shrugged.

John suddenly found himself subject to a hug. From Sherlock Holmes.

He smiled sadly and returned the hug.

"I'll miss you... I already do," he whispered.

"I know. The sentiment is reciprocated." Sherlock paused. "I mean... I miss you, too..."

John sighed, stepping back. He had wanted his proper goodbye and now he had it and he didn't know what to say. Certainly not goodbye.

"You're alright, John. You're strong. You're a soldier. Don't let me down," Sherlock said.

"I wouldn't. I couldn't..."

"That's my blogger." Sherlock looked at his watch. "Lestrade will be here in one minute and twenty seven seconds. I'll leave you two to talk."

John nodded slightly, feeling a bit numb. He had to get past this, though. He had to, or he would never move on. If he didn't move on... Giving up on himself was giving up on Sherlock and he could not stop believing in his best friend. If he was the only person who did, he would just have to be the one person who did.

"Stay safe," Sherlock said, stepping around him to the door.

"Bye..." John murmured. "I- I-"

What was he supposed to say? I'll miss you? I _miss_ you? I want you to stay? I need you, I care for you, I owe you, I-

"I know," Sherlock interrupted softly, offering a hesitant smile.

And he did. John knew that he did.

"Bye," he repeated.

Sherlock gave him one last smile before he had vanished out the door.

John didn't move, struggled to hold back tears, and forced himself to take deep breaths because he was a soldier and even though Sherlock said that soldiers _cried_...

He had to stop crying.

A knock on the door made him jump. Heart jumping to his throat, he wrenched the door open.

Lestrade was on the doorstep, eyebrows furrowed.

John sighed.

"Hey, John..." Lestrade greeted hesitantly, although he glanced to his right, looking towards the corner.

"Hi..." John murmured, following his gaze. "What are you looking at...?"

"I thought I just saw- nevermind." Lestrade offered a wan smile, looking back at John.

"Sherlock?" John supplied mindlessly. "Don't worry... I think I see him all the time, too... Do you want a drink?" he asked, looking from the street to Lestrade. "I've got take-away and just bought some scotch..."

"It sounds great, John."

John smiled hesitantly. "It sort of does... doesn't it?"

* * *

**Because if it's one thing that John doesn't want to do, it's disappoint Sherlock. Whether or not he's dead or alive...**

**That's all for this story. Again, thanks a bunch to _Storylover18_ for the wonderful idea, even though I skewed a bit from the original idea and the fact that I said it was going to be a oneshot and... yeah. Hopefully, you've enjoyed it, well, at least, enjoyed the somewhat? happy ending. Thanks for all of your support.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_.**

**Thank you!**


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